


Don't Wake Me

by RascalJoy (DarkQuill)



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Detective Comics (2016), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: (sort of not really), Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Pre-52 characters referencing Rebirth storyline, Pre-New 52, spoilers for Detective Comics #940
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8523070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkQuill/pseuds/RascalJoy
Summary: *Spoilers for Detective Comics #940*This. THIS was Tim. Solid, warm, breathing, alive. Not disintegrated on some clocktower's roof.Just a dream. It had only been a dream. (A nightmare.)(Pre-52 Steph and Tim's "death." Alternatively, Steph has a nightmare and Tim comforts her in his own awkward way.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from Fanfiction.net.
> 
> Ohmagosh, two stories within a month? Woohoo! (And first time writing Steph, too. Bonus points.)
> 
> Anyway, came up with this last Wednesday, finished it Monday, and edited it last night. This is the start of my closure after Detective Comics #940, starting with Tim and Steph's relationship.
> 
> IMPORTANT: These are pre-52 characters indirectly reacting to a Rebirth storyline that may or may not exist in their future (depending on how nerdy and alternate timeline-y you want to get). So preboot canon with a Rebirth reference.
> 
> Also, I have a Spotify account under the same username (RascalJoy) with playlists for a bunch of the Bats; one of which is a Tim Drake/Stephanie Brown playlist if you like to listen while you read. If you want more info, check out my Fanfiction profile.
> 
> Can be read as platonic or ship-py, I honestly don't know what I was aiming for, but either way, it takes place after their breakup.
> 
> Now that all that's out of the way, please enjoy! :)

_Don’t wake me_  
_‘Cause I don’t want to leave this dream_  
_Don’t wake me_  
_‘Cause I never seem to stay asleep enough_  
_When it’s you I’m dreaming of_  
_I don’t wanna wake up_

_~ "Don't Wake Me" by Skillet_

* * *

 

It was Gotham, but…not.

It was newer somehow. Sleeker, more modern. But the grit and the grime and the rough edges were still there, still distinct enough to recognize; still screamed _Gotham_.

Steph…wasn’t sure what was happening. Or why she was here. Or really anything other than that there was a very strong feeling in her gut screaming, ‘ _Hurry_.’

It took her a moment to recognize that feeling for what it was: Fear.

Fear was what had her legs leaping over rooftops, an irrational urgency she couldn’t identify the cause of guiding her every movement until she was practically flying.

Toward…what?

Something was happening. Something horrible, judging from the sensation of half-melted ice twisting its way through her insides.

Something to do with the flood of blinking blue lights converging on the city from the sky.

Whatever puzzle her mind was trying to piece together, Steph wasn’t sure she was liking the picture.

Faster. She needed to be faster.

Without recalling how she knew, Steph dropped into the next alley, yanking the tarp off of a _gorgeous_ eggplant motorcycle— _her_ eggplant motorcycle—cranked the engine, and squealed out onto the roadway.

 _Not fast enough_ , a voice in her mind whispered.

 _Shut up_ , she told it.

There was a strange lack of traffic as she whizzed through downtown Gotham, pushing the beautiful bike to its limits. Then again, Gothamites were apparently well acquainted with the need to stay indoors during, you know, a drone attack. Go figure.

And yet the practical silence of the city made the whole situation seem that much more like the Twilight Zone.

Embarassingly, Steph nearly jumped out of her skin as, without warning, an actual human voice echoed through the comm in her ear: “Steph…can you hear me…”

Pained. Out of breath. _Familiar_.

And just like that, one word flew to the forefront of her mind: _Tim_.

The horror sharpened with sudden clarity.

Tim. _Tim_ was up there, on the clocktower, in the center of the circle of lights. Tim was alone, Tim was in _danger_ …

Tim was going to die.

“I’m almost there, Tim…” she promised, equal parts panic and exertion dragging at her words. “I’m almost—“

“Steph. Listen. These last few months have been incredible.”

Months? They’d known each other _years_.

“You helped me discover exactly what I wanted to do with my life,” Tim continued. “The kind of man I would be. I wish I was going to be there for you.”

That son of a…a _Bat_. “Tim… _don’t hang up_ ,” she ordered. _“Stay with me!”_ _Don’t leave me alone. Not again._

“I love you, Steph.” Short pause. Then a barely over a whisper: “Goodbye.”

_“NO!”_

Red lasers erupted from the drones, rocketing into the building, and—

Stephanie jerked upright, gasping, head spinning from the sudden, unexpected movement. Sweat trickled down her brow, heart beating in double time to her panting breaths.

A wall swam into focus before her tear-blurred vision. A wall with some really fancy trimming.

Confused, she turned her head, catching sight of an ornate bedside table with matching table lamp, and a comparatively simpler cushioned chair at the side of the…bed.

As she moved to flick on the lamp, something silky brushed against her fingertips. Bedsheets. _Expensive_ bedsheets.

Steph tripped the switch.

The piercing yellow glow of the bulb illuminated the room, chasing the shadows out of the corners to reveal the remainder of the apparent bedroom.

She was…was…in Wayne Manor. Why? What…?

Steph rarely stayed overnight at the Manor. (She felt like enough of an intruder without messing with the Bats’ personal lives, too.) The Batcave, yes, but only when she’d had to; usually because of some injury or other that required her to stay for observation.

Oh _yeah_. That’s what happened.

Early on in patrol earlier that night(?), she’d gotten a small whiff of Scarecrow’s fear gas. Not enough to lock her in a realm of terrors for the unforeseeable future, but just enough to hallucinate enough to warrant meds and a good night’s rest. Considering her apartment had been on the complete opposite side of the city from the bust site, the invitation to stay over was definitely appreciated.

Although, if it hadn’t been so flipping chilly in the Cave, there was no way Tim could have convinced her to take one of the guest bedrooms instead of the med cot…

Tim.

Irrational panic bubbled in her throat, the contents of her dream leaking into the realm of reality. What if…what if it hadn’t been a dream at all? What if she’d had a breakdown, shutdown or something, and he was really…

Fear gas. Remember? Calm down, Steph. Just….

Okay, no. Find the nerd. Then go back to bed.

Heart pounding, Steph wriggled out of the (cloud-like) sheets, shivering as her bare toes brushed the cold floor. She proceeded to tiptoe-hop across the room, hissing with every touch of frigid hardwood, finally cracking the door open and barreling out into the hallway.

Right into a warm, hard _something_.

“Whoa!” the obstacle yelped, catching her by the elbows. “Careful.”

Steph gaped up at the startled face of a certain Timothy Jackson Drake in the pale light of the lamp at her back.

Alive. He was _alive_.

Relief crashed through her system, and with a cry of joy, Steph threw herself at the third (her) Robin, burying her face in his shirt, wrapping her arms around him, and squeezing his middle in what could arguably be more of a desperate hold than a hug. Whatever.

Because Tim was _alive_. That warranted celebration. (She pointedly ignored the unmistakeable dampness slowly soaking the fabric around her eyes.)

Tim had tensed briefly at the unexpected contact; just then relaxed. “Steph…? What’s—“

“Stop,” she demanded, breathing shakily into the fabric of his shirt, taking in the familiar scent of Alfred’s fabric softener and something else unmistakably _Tim_. “Don’t talk. Just…hold me. Please.” That last bit came out sounding more like a plea than she’d intended.

Tim hesitated. Rested a tentative hand to Steph’s hair, fingering softly; unsure. “All right,” he breathed, barely above a whisper.

 _That’s my awkward little Timmy_ , Steph thought. Fought back a sob. Squeezed Tim tighter, pressing her ear over his heart to hear its beat, basking in the natural heat radiating from his body, reveling in every slight shift of his muscles beneath his skin.

This. _This_ was Tim. Solid, warm, breathing, _alive_. Not disintegrated on some clocktower’s roof.

Just a dream. It had only been a dream. (A nightmare.)

Steph became briefly aware that Tim had rested his chin on her head, was now stroking her hair like she was a child. Any other night she would’ve punched him, but…it was comforting, somehow. So she allowed it. Just this once. (Rather, she didn’t want to ruin the poor boy’s attempt at empathy. At least Tim had _some_ concept of emotions, unlike a certain Bat in the basement.)

Steph wasn’t sure how long they stood there, in a more-or-less one-sided embrace. Decided she didn’t care, allowing the steady beat of Tim’s heart fill her ears. (Thank goodness Tim had always been the patient one of the family.)

Embarrassingly, she realized she’d just about nodded off into Tim’s chest when the boy finally spoke, hesitant: “Are you…okay?”

Steph smiled against his chest. “Peachy.” Finally looked up, meeting slightly confused (concerned) blue eyes. “Promise me something.”

“Anything,” Tim said instantly. Sincerely. (Such an adorable dork.)

“Promise me you’ll never put on a Robin suit again.”

Tim…blinked. Laughed awkwardly, giving her that crooked little grin of his that never quite reached his eyes. “No problem. Don’t think Damian likes sharing, anyway.”

“Good,” Steph said, satisfied. Realized, “And don’t cut your hair. Ever. Grow a mullet for all I care, just keep it at least eyebrow length at all times.”

“Er…okay?”

“And stay away from clocktowers. I don’t care how awesome of a hideout they make, I hear they’re particularly big baddie targets these days.”

“I’m going to put this conversation down to the medication,” Tim concluded.

“You know you love it,” Steph teased. Made to say something else, only for a yawn to break the syllable before it even had a chance to come out.

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Tired?”

“No,” Steph protested. The effect was lost as another yawn erupted from her mouth. Traitor…

“I can see that,” Tim agreed, a hint of amusement leaking into his tone. Then, firm, but gentle, in that weirdly balanced way of his, he eased half out of her hold, shifting his arm around her waist. “C’mon, BG. Back to bed.”

And okay, yeah, maybe Steph _was_ half-leaning on the teen as they worked their way back through the bedroom, staggering a bit out of line as Steph wobbled tiredly against him.

They reached the bed, Tim fumbled back the covers with his free hand, and allowed Steph to flop unceremoniously out of his arms and onto that stupid soft mattress, face first in that lovely, downy pillow…

The covers were flipped over her shoulders, tucked in by gentle unseen hands. Sluggishly, Steph turned her head, watching through half-lidded eyes as Tim flicked off the lamp and quietly made for the door.

Before Steph fully processed what she was doing, her hand shot out, latching onto the hem of Tim’s shirt. Almost instantly, she dropped the fabric, cursing herself for her childishness; left her hand sticking out anyway because it was too late to retract and why the heck not?

The third Robin paused at the pull, turning, one eyebrow raised in question.

“Stay with me?” she whispered.

Tim hesitated, staring at Steph’s outstretched palm with an unreadable expression. Huffed a small sigh (not so much resignation as…something else), dragging the chair closer to the bedside and settling back in the seat. Wordlessly, Tim took Steph’s hand in his, thankfully not pointing it out when Steph’s fingers instantly probed for his pulse point and held.

Steph was practically asleep when a breathy whisper broke through the haze between sleep and awareness: “Always.”

Smiling, Steph allowed Tim’s (living, breathing) presence to lull her into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

(Steph woke to an empty apartment, a college acceptance letter that wasn't hers crumpled in one hand, and the taste of salt on her lips.)

(A dream. It had only been a dream.)


End file.
